


In Return

by temporalgambit



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 03:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13115076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalgambit/pseuds/temporalgambit
Summary: By the very nature of his position, Ignis spends more time with Noctis than anyone.





	In Return

**Author's Note:**

> My Ignoct Secret Santa gift for RaenNgu on tumblr! Merry Christmas!

By the very nature of his position, Ignis spends more time with Noctis than anyone.

There’s very little that isn’t shared between them—every joy, sorrow, hope, and fear. All secrets, dreams, frustrations, and hurt. Stolen kisses when they think nobody is looking. A million little affectionate touches that come as naturally as breathing air, cultivated by a lifetime’s worth of trust and understanding.

All that being said, Noct isn’t the least bit surprised when his own miserable, sniffling, hacking cold becomes _Ignis’s_ miserable, sniffling, hacking cold.

After ten-plus years, it’s the natural order of things. 

Granted, they _do_ go about convalescence a little differently—Noct stays home for three days and watches terrible daytime TV, while Ignis…does not. But there’s a certain sense of solidarity between them in the two days after Noct starts to get better and before Ignis starts to feel worse.

The problem is, Ignis _only_ seems to be feeling worse.

The poor guy has tissues shoved in every available pocket, nose scrubbed pink in a way that might be funny were it not for his obvious misery. When he’s not blowing his nose, he’s coughing, and when he’s not coughing, he’s clearing his throat with such a poorly-hidden grimace Noct knows it must hurt like hell.

He has to admit, he feels a little guilty—both for giving Ignis his cold in the first place, and for the fact that he’d managed to get away with relatively mild symptoms in comparison to whatever monstrosity has set up shop in his advisor’s chest.

So, on the fifth day, when Ignis’s cough begins to sound less like he’s clearing his throat and more like he’s struggling not to drown, Noct makes up his mind to _do something about it._

Mercifully, they only have two important things left on the agenda for today: the longest, most boring meeting in the world, and a daunting stack of reports Noct has been putting off reading ever since the first sniffle hit. He _knows_ he should have put more focus into keeping on top of things, but he can barely get through those pages of political jargon on a _good_ day, let alone when he’s not feeling well. He tells himself it was a losing battle, but that consolation is somewhat hollow in the face of all this backlog. 

Nevertheless, he can only focus on one thing at a time. And for now, that one thing is this meeting.

They’re just there to observe, really. Ignis has been dutifully taking notes the entire time, but it’s not like either of them knows jack about city infrastructure. Some guy with a ridiculously gaudy tie is bemoaning the lack of funds allotted towards bridge maintenance, while another is trying to interject a point about the necessity of upgraded emergency weather equipment. It’s probably important and relevant information that will affect a great number of people, but the two men remind him more of sleazy used car salesmen than respected government officials. It’s almost enough to turn him away from the topic entirely.

It’s also very, very boring. 

Noct can’t keep his attention from wandering, eyes straying to the yellow legal pad Ignis is writing on. His notes are pristine, key points jotted down in his tiny, neat handwriting. His gaze travels up to Ignis’s face, watching his eyes flick from the speaker to his notes, back and forth at lightning speed. He doesn’t seem to notice Noct’s watchful stare, even as the prince takes in the dusting of pink high on his cheeks, the beads of sweat collecting at his hairline, the occasional shiver running through his frame…

Then he stops writing.

Noct freezes, wondering if he’s been caught—and if so, why it should matter. But no, Ignis keeps his grip on the pen, his other hand traveling to press ineffectively to his chest, and Noct can now hear the gentle wheeze with each of his inhalations.

He’s going to cough, that same gut-wrenching cough he’s been doing since yesterday. And he’s doing his damnedest to suppress it—out of what? Politeness? For the sake of these clowns bickering over money? It must _hurt,_ too—and is it his imagination, or are Ignis’s eyes a little wetter than they’d been a minute ago? He looks anxious and miserable in a way Noct hasn’t seen since—

He’s just about to say something when Ignis stands, breathlessly muttering an apology in the midst of a bow, and marches out of the room like a man on a mission. The door hasn’t even swung all the way shut before Noct hears exactly what he’d known was coming—explosive, deep coughing, seemingly far too loud to have come from his mild-mannered advisor. Then the door latches, effectively soundproofing the room. 

Somehow the silence is worse. He’s sure everything is fine _,_ but not knowing for _certain_ that Ignis had managed to catch his breath is agonizing in its own way.

This meeting cannot end soon enough.

Some fifteen-odd minutes later, when it finally does, Noct is in such a hurry to gather his and Ignis’s things that he barely hears the closing remarks about the necessity of _another_ meeting “in order to make a well-examined decision on the matter.”

Figures.

The wave of relief Noct feels when he finds Ignis waiting right outside the door is palpable. He passes over his briefcase and travel mug, lacing their fingers together long enough to give his hand a comforting little squeeze before they head towards the elevator.

As soon as the elevator doors shut, Ignis sags against the wall, eyes closed. He has a few damp specks on his shirt collar—he must’ve gone to the restroom to splash cool water on his face, Noct realizes, though he certainly doesn’t seem to be feeling any better for it.

“You look like shit,” Ignis cracks open one eye, and Noct amends, “—sicker than I was, I mean.”

“Yes, well…” Ignis makes a vague gesture with his mug, which Noct knows is full of that awful herbal tea he drinks whenever he’s really, truly ill, “it’s nothing a good night’s rest won’t fix.”

Noct rolls his eyes. “And when’s the last time you had one of _those?_ ”

“…Touché.” Ignis closes his eye again and raises a hand to adjust his glasses, fingers lingering for just a few seconds to pinch the bridge of his nose. Noct pats his back reassuringly, and he can’t quite help his own smile when the corners of Ignis’s lips quirk up in amusement. “Do I look an absolute state?”

“Do you _feel_ an ‘absolute state’?” Noct counters, reaching up and pushing back the few sweat-damp strands of hair that have stuck to Ignis’s forehead. An unsubtle brush against skin reveals what he already knows; his advisor is running a temperature. 

Ignis only hums. 

The elevator chimes.

The debate over who is going to drive them back to Noct’s apartment is short-lived once Noct points out that it is in _both_ of their best interests if Ignis doesn’t crash the car in the midst of a coughing fit. Ignis tries valiantly to argue back, but raising his voice to a proper fighting volume is enough to send him into just such a fit. He hacks wetly, face buried in the crook of his elbow, hard enough and long enough that he’s practically swooning when it finally lets up. Eyes and nose streaming, he even lets Noct open the passenger side door for him.

And while Noct is sure Ignis probably has like, four different kinds of cough drops in his briefcase, he offers him one from the handful he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier—basking in the warmth of the tired, grateful little smile he receives in return.

Noct leaves the radio off—a necessary sacrifice for the sake of Ignis’s pounding head—and fiddles with the heat instead. It’s not particularly cold out, but he remembers Ignis shivering his way through the meeting and figures it’s the best he can do for now.

Either he’s correct, or else exhaustion has simply won the battle, because they’re barely a mile out before Ignis lists to the right, forehead thumping gently against the cool glass of the window. Noct waits a moment before sneaking a peek at him, wondering if maybe he’s just resting his eyes, but no—his posture is completely slack, mouth hanging slightly open. Hell, he’s even _snoring—_ barely loud enough to be heard over the whirr of the heating system.

If he wasn’t one hundred percent certain Ignis would wake up to scold him for removing his eyes from the road, Noct would _totally_ take a picture right now. 

Instead, he just concentrates on keeping the ride as smooth as possible. 

Ignis doesn’t stir until they’re parked, and Noct gives him a minute to collect himself before they head into the apartment. He toes his shoes off ungracefully, watching with some interest as Ignis follows suit, and leads his still-drowsy boyfriend over to the sofa. 

“I am in dire need of some caffeine,” Ignis complains through a yawn, even as he sinks back into the cushions. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”

Noct rolls his eyes, exasperated but still impossibly fond. “Bronchitis, Ignis. You have bronchitis.”

“…Perhaps.”

“Almost definitely,” Noct uncaps the thermometer, conveniently left on the end table earlier that week by none other than Ignis himself. “Open up,” he pokes his patient in the lower lip when he doesn’t react fast enough. 

Ignis complies, reluctance written all over his face. “I hardly think this is severe enough to warrant such attention,” he mumbles around the thermometer.

But thirty seconds later, they have their answer. “102 even,” Noct announces, to Ignis’s obvious chagrin. “That’s high enough. You’re going to bed.”

True to his nature, a counterpoint follows, “Noct, it’s only—” he squints at the clock, “—5:30.” 

“Yeah, and you’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” The deeply troubled furrow between Ignis’s brows doesn’t smooth out, so Noct softens his tone. “Just for a little while, okay? You can sleep here on the couch, and I’ll sit in the chair and tackle a couple of these reports. Sound good?” 

Whether it’s the thought of the prince actually getting some work done, or just the simple enticing pull of slumber, Noct isn’t sure, but Ignis folds like a house of cards. “If you insist.” 

Noct leans in long enough to give him a peck on the cheek, then heads to his bedroom to retrieve a pair of Ignis’s warmest pajama pants, the thickest blanket he owns, and three ridiculously overstuffed pillows. He makes quick work of his advisor’s business attire, heart clenching at how badly he shivers in just his underclothes, and helps him shimmy into the flannel pants. Ignis coughs lightly, face turned away as Noct arranges the pillows at one end of the couch and eases him back against them. Noct kisses him again, this time on his fever-hot forehead as he tucks the comforter around his body. 

“Comfy?” 

“Very.”

“You need anything else?” 

Ignis shakes his head. “You’re spoiling me,” he cautions, though the warning comes across more sleepy and content than foreboding.

“You deserve it,” Noct smoothes back his bangs, stealing his glasses from the bridge of his nose and placing them on the coffee table for safekeeping. “Just rest. I’ll be working if you need me.”

“Hard to believe,” there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips as his eyes flutter shut.

“Harsh, Specs.” But Ignis is already asleep.

Noct settles in for the long run.

* * *

Ignis awakens with a rush of adrenaline and the horrible, pressing knowledge that something is _wrong._

His sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process that he’s coughing—hard enough that each cough brings literal tears to his eyes. He struggles his way out of his blanket cocoon, turning on his side and pulling his knees toward his chest, anything to make it _stop._ He hears rustling, footsteps, someone talking to him, but he can’t make sense of the words. Then, without warning, he’s hauled up into a sitting position—a move that throws off what little equilibrium he has and makes him sick to his stomach. 

 _It’s Noct,_ he realizes belatedly, feeling a hand against his back. Noct’s hand, Noct’s voice, Noct’s sofa, Noct’s apartment. He focuses on that hand, kneading gently into his back, trying to help get his breathing back under control. He takes in a stuttered breath, coughing it out again just as quickly, but Noct’s voice has an encouraging edge to it now, and a cool hand presses to the back of his neck as he manages another inward gasp.

Noct sits with him until he’s only panting, then gets up just long enough to nab the box of tissues from the end-table. Ignis grabs a handful, dabbing at his eyes and blowing his nose until he feels almost human again. 

“Feel better?” Noct asks. 

“Somewhat.” he lies, noting with no small amount of displeasure how utterly destroyed his voice is. 

Noct clearly doesn’t believe him, which is probably for the best. Still, he drops the subject. “You want dinner? There’s leftover soup.” To say the soup is simply _leftover_ doesn’t quite do the sheer volume justice. When it comes to Ignis, there is simply no underestimating the curative powers of broth and noodles. 

Which is to say, he’d dutifully produced a truly _absurd_ quantity the very moment Noct had mentioned feeling unwell.

Except _now_ …now the very thought of food is enough to turn his stomach. “I’d—” he cuts himself off, swallowing compulsively, “I’d rather not.”

He must look as exceptionally queasy as he feels, because Noct doesn’t try to talk him into it. “You should probably have something to drink, at least…you’re still pretty flushed,” he’s frowning as he presses the backs of his fingers to Ignis’s forehead. Ignis repeats the action himself, but he can’t really make an assumption either way. “Tea?” Noct suggests, “I don’t have your gross herbal stuff, though…but I think there might be orange juice in the fridge?”

Ignis would rather play it safe, in all honesty. “Maybe just a glass of water, and some of that awful cough syrup I forced into you over the weekend?”

Noct turns to stare so quickly he nearly gives himself whiplash. “So now the truth comes out—you _knew_ it was horrible from the beginning. ‘Cherry flavor’, my _ass._ ”

The snort that escapes Ignis is both hilarious and unexpected, and he catches a glimpse of Noct’s grin before he turns away under the pretense of retrieving the requested items. In the short time it takes him to fill a cup and grab the cough medicine, Ignis is overcome by a wash of fatigue, and he flops back onto the pillows, massaging his throbbing temples. He realizes he’s probably dehydrated, but knowing the _cause_ of this massive headache doesn’t do him much good. His eyes slip shut despite himself.

“Still tired?” Noct’s voice is low, obviously trying to avoid disturbing him.

“Exhausted, actually,” Ignis murmurs, dragging his eyes open long enough to accept the proffered glass. The cool liquid feels incredible against his raw throat, and he surprises himself by downing half the water in one go. Noct uncaps the medicine, examining the label on the back and carefully dispensing the correct dose into the measuring cup. In Ignis’s humble opinion, the syrup would be much less intimidating if it didn’t reflect a murky, reddish hue, but beggars can’t be choosers. He takes it like a shot, but it still hits enough of his taste-buds on the way down to send a shudder up his spine. 

Noct gives him a wry smile. “Horrible, isn’t it?” 

“Positively disgusting,” he swishes a little water around in his mouth to try and dissipate the taste.

“Should knock you out in no time, at least,” Noct supplies. 

Not that Ignis will probably need much help on that front, drowsy as he already is. Being sick is certainly doing a number on his overall productivity. He allows Noct to take him by the arm, helping him rise from the gravitational pull of the sofa and make his unsteady way into the bedroom.

He shrugs him off, though, when Noct tries to deposit him in bed. 

“What’s up?” Noct tilts his head to the side, a slight pout upon his lips.

He can’t let this one go, though. “I know a shower is probably out of the question, but…” he hopes Noct catches his drift.

Noct sighs, but ultimately agrees. “Okay, yeah. Go brush your teeth and wash your face and whatever else you gotta do. Maybe a bath tomorrow, if you don’t look like you’ll fall asleep and drown in the tub.” 

Reinvigorated by the promise of basic personal hygiene, Ignis straightens up enough that Noct deems him sufficiently awake to manage without a babysitter. With a nodded promise to shout if he needs anything, he disappears behind the door, relishing this brief moment of solitude. He brushes his teeth quickly—eager to erase the lingering pseudo-cherry flavor from his mouth—uses the facilities, makes a vain attempt to comb his hair into something half-controllable, and takes great pleasure in washing away the sticky layer of dried sweat on his face. 

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror is somewhat startling—he looks much worse off than he’d remembered from that morning. Or perhaps he’s simply projecting how terrible he currently _feels_ onto his reflection. In either case, he sincerely hopes a good night’s sleep will help clear away the bruise-colored circles beneath his eyes. 

He’s shivering by the time he returns to the bedroom, beyond grateful when Noct ushers him beneath the comforter—and even more so when the prince climbs into bed after him.

The lights go out. Save for the ambient hum of the building, the room is quiet.

And Ignis is suddenly _wide awake._

He blinks, eyes trying to adjust to the inky blackness of his surroundings. Maybe he’s just not in the right position? He shuffles over onto one side, then the other. Flips the pillow over, fluffs it up, then scrunches it beneath his head. He takes several deep breaths, trying to relax himself into unconsciousness, but all _that_ succeeds in doing is to force a string of smothered coughs from his abused lungs. 

A low groan forms in the back of his throat, and he has to resist the urge to pull the covers up over his head like a scorned child. He settles for smushing his face into the pillow, trying to block out the universe and whatever nonsense could possibly be keeping him from several hours of desperately-needed sleep.

He knows he’s truly done it when Noct mumbles something unintelligible and rolls over, draping an arm across his body in a half-hug he’s all too eager to receive.

“Wha’ssa matter?” The question is inelegantly put, Noct’s own exhaustion creeping into his voice—a gentle reminder that he’d recently been ill, as well.

“I can’t—” frustration laces his words, but there’s no helping it, “—it’s—it’s ridiculous. Apologies.”

He can practically hear Noct rolling his eyes in the darkness. “Don’t ‘apologies’ me, c’mon.”

Ignis considers his options for a long moment. Finally, “I can’t sleep.”

“Obviously.” 

“I—I’m certainly _tired_ enough, but…” Noct is moving behind him, arms creeping up his back to find his shoulders. He’s just about to ask what he’s doing, when firm pressure into an achy spot right between his shoulder blades makes him gasp. 

Noct pulls away as if he’d been burned. “You’re _tense_ ,” he observes.

Ignis can hear the strain in his own voice when he replies, “A bit, yes.”

Hands wandering up and down, Noct is sure to feel every illness-bred knot in Ignis’s back. The displeased click of his tongue all but seals the deal. “No wonder you can’t sleep—scoot forward a little,” he pushes Ignis slightly upright, blatantly ignoring the groan this elicits, and shuffles into the newly-created space against the headboard. Ignis rests against him without any prompting, snuggling up to this most welcome source of heat.

Noct’s hands are warm as they sit upon his shoulders, and Ignis can’t help the shaky little sigh that passes his lips at the first gentle sweep of his thumbs over coiled muscle. Noct takes this for what it is—permission to press a bit harder—and works at the first big knot he finds.

Ignis arches his back ever-so-slightly, trying to guide Noct’s hands where he needs them most, and has to bite back a moan when he finds the right spot. “You’re too good to me,” he murmurs, rolling one shoulder forward with marked relief. 

“We both know that’s not true.” 

Ignis laughs, quiet and a little raspy as Noct cants his hips forward, giving him space to lean back. Noct’s hands are in his hair now, pads of his fingers rubbing lazy circles on his scalp. He can feel the rise and fall of Noct’s chest with each breath, and he tries to match his own breathing to the slow, easy pace. When he presses his ear to Noct’s breastbone, he can hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

He could fall asleep like this. 

The darkness that laps at the edges of wakefulness is familiar. He breathes in time with Noct, the wheezing ache in his chest dissolving bit by bit. The arms around him are warm, the form beneath him is sturdy. It feels good. It feels _right._

It feels like home. 

In the hazy bliss of near-unconsciousness, he thinks he forms his mouth into the shape of, “I love you.”

The press of lips to the crown of his head is all he needs in return.


End file.
